Twisted (A Zeta Cartel Novel Book 5)

by AJ Adams

  Not so stupid after all. I put a hand on his shoulder. "Smith, you're not making any sense. You're exhausted, my friend. Please, get some rest."

  "Where were you Friday morning? You'd better answer, and no fucking about." Smith was red with annoyance. It didn't bother me because he was no danger. I let him have his moment and as he had no proof of anything, he walked away. Stormed, actually, although he pretended it was a strut.

  "Boss?" James was ready for action. It wasn't even dawn yet, but he looked immaculate as always. He'd even found time to shave. "What are your orders?"

  Three restaurants and our best brothel attacked in one night. It was war, and it was my job to lead. I embraced the challenge but between you and me, I felt as if I were on a cliff's edge.

  Then I got it together. Because I'm not a fucking pussy. Battle is in my blood.

  "Put the word out I want the man who did this. A cash reward for the tip that nets the arsonist."

  "Consider it done." James was right on it. "What next, boss?"

  "We get back in business ASAP. Reassure all our customers. Give vouchers for free kebabs in our affiliate shops. Call the Curzon Street regulars and offer a promo: for tonight only, it's 50 percent off blowjobs."

  "Yes, boss!"

  "Staff meeting at nine."

  "Yes, boss."

  War is fought with money as well as intelligence. I needed troops, people who could guard my property. They needn't be part of my team; muscle can be hired. The best security people are ex-military, and as there are lots of wars going on, I had plenty of choices. One phone call and £200,000 netted me a dozen mercenaries, promised to arrive by the end of business.

  As for intelligence, hacking Kowalczyk's phone and gate CCTV had yielded me the names of his security personnel, top clients and associates. But I needed local information, and not the kind you can buy easily on the street.

  After thinking it over, another call found Terry Chin.

  "What the fuck? Do you know what the frigging time is?"

  "Chin? Jorge Santos here."

  There was a frightened silence. "Sir? Uhm, good morning."

  "I have a job for you."

  "Uhm, yes?"

  "Not over the phone. My office. In twenty minutes."

  He made it in ten, in a Torchwood tee and with his spiked hair dyed red, white and blue. He looked as if a British flag had thrown up on him, but he was a decent hacker.

  "Chin, I want background on these people," I handed him a thumb drive. "Hack into their phones, read their email, dig through their social media, get their school teacher reports from kindy, do whatever it takes. I need to know everything."

  He was sweating cobs. "Yes, sir."

  "What are your rates?"

  He looked blank. "Rates?" Chin had tried to break into our phones once and after being warned off and witnessing some of our work, he was careful not to piss me off. "Whatever you say, sir."

  "Make it good, and I'll give you a thou per profile."

  His jaw dropped. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

  "I pay top dollar for discretion."

  He went white. "I'm not saying nothing to nobody!"

  As he shot off, the team came in. I was ready with the plan. "We've had the warmup; now we go to war. I've contracted a dozen pros. Mercenaries from Tel Aviv."

  That went down well. Even frugal James was smiling.

  "For the next month, they'll provide security, leaving us free for business."

  Their attention sharpened. We Zetas like a fight and I saw they were eager for payback. Unlike before, they were quiet, nodding respectfully. It was as it should be but I felt the distance.

  "We strike Kowalczyk's drug business, so his revenue stream dries up. Yesterday he lost his farm and tomorrow his plane doesn't take off. That takes care of his supplies. And in case he orders in from another source, we're taking out his top dealers."

  An analysis of Kowalczyk's business had shown that his network of teen dealers brought in just 40 percent of his business. The rest came from three kingpins servicing a private clientele. As all of them were Polish and loyal, they weren't for sale, so they had to go.

  "We want fast clean kills. As these guys have bodyguards, we tackle them together." We'd do it together to be safe and it would mend fences. Group killing always fosters excellent rapport. It reminds us of who we are. "Remember, hats, scarves, and long coats to obscure CCTV, and gloves and silencers to be sure we don't give our good friend Smith any leads."

  There were smiles but no laughter. I told myself they were uptight because it was the first time we were at war without the leadership of our elders back home. Secretly, I worried about that wall. I had longed for respect but hadn't banked on feeling isolated. But, I assured myself, the shootings would bring us back together.

  I got to my feet. "Gentlemen, let's send some messages, Zeta style."

  We took out the first target easily, catching him still asleep in his apartment and his guards napping at the door. The second one was a piece of piss as well and I mean that literally; we got him in the crapper.

  But the third was a bitch because the bastard heard James and Lencho take out the guard at his front door. He bounced into the back bedroom, collided with me, and in all the momentum, we took down a book case. Being battered with eight pine shelves loaded with hardbacks didn't spoil my aim but it added to my collection of bruises.

  James pulled me out from under. "Holy hell, Jorge! You okay?"

  At that I might have fixed it but all the breath had been knocked out of me. By the time I could speak, the moment had passed. "Yeah, awesome."

  Lencho was on his phone. "Keep him there. The boss will want to see him, personally." He hung up and turned to me. "There's a man at Bubbles who says he can finger the arsonist."

  "Let's go."

  It was mid-afternoon but my people were hard at work, setting up for happy hour. The Brits love their booze and offering a beer and tapa special got the commuter set deciding they'd wait out rush hour in my place. A few had snuck out early and were already in place at the bar.

  The bouncers had sent the informant to the back door, and it was easy to see why. Wearing camo that was ripped to hell and a beard you could lose a cat in, he was the kind of guy people throw money at, just to get him to go away. He looked like shit, smelled worse, and he had a bad case of the shakes. He was a classic crack addict, and he desperately needed a fix.

  "You asked to see me?"

  He'd been military at one point because he came to attention like a pro. "Yessir."

  I waited, but he just stopped. "You have some information for me?" I prompted him.

  "I was there when they torched your place," he muttered. "I heard you want to know who did it."

  "Yes, I do. Who was it?"

  "That bloke in the Kebab House. He used to give me food." Again, he just faded out. "Good bloke, Ali."

  "You want to help him," I suggested.

  "Yeah." The watery eyes focussed. "And I need the cash, like."

  "Tell me who. It'll help Ali and I will pay you."

  He stared into space. "I saw him do it. I was in the alley, looking for breakfast."

  "Yeah, I see." Jesus, he'd been digging through dustbins like a dog.

  "Kicked me as he passed me, the bastard."

  "He's scum, my friend." I had the horrible feeling that this was going nowhere. "What did he look like?"

  "Sparky Thomas?" he said surprised. "Like he always does, fucking nasty piece of work."

  I had a name, but it meant nothing to me. "How do I find him?"

  "He's got a place in Field Street. The flat above Quick Cuts hairdresser."

  Score. I patted the greasy thin shoulder. "Look, I have to go to the bank to get some cash. If you come into the kitchen, my people will give you some dinner, okay? Wait for me, and I'll be back to pay you."

  The team were right behind me.

  "Boss," James dropped his voice. "Field Street is across the road from Smith's headquarters."r />
  The policeman wasn't a problem, but the location was a challenge because it was covered by CCTV as well as special patrols. They were geared to spot and prevent terrorist attacks, but it meant committing murder on Smith's doorstep would be tricky.

  "Go back to the office. I'll fix this."

  James was about to protest, but he thought better of it. "Yes, boss."

  I was wearing a long raincoat, but I snagged a red and white scarf and cap from the staff cloakroom that proclaimed my love for Arsenal football team.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was in Field Street. Lucky for me, it was filled with nicely noisy car as well as foot traffic. I avoided walking in front of a bank because it was likely to have street cameras, skirted a very obvious undercover security patrol, and took a side alley that led to Sparky's back door.

  The padlock was no match for my lock picks. Less than sixty seconds later, I was climbing the stairs. The first three floors had been converted to office space; Sparky's was on the fourth and dead easy to spot thanks to the name written on the letterbox.

  I dug a £50 note from my wallet, grabbed a circular out of the post, took off coat, hat and scarf and rang the bell. Then I stood sideways and held the money in front of the peeping eye.

  "What do you want?"

  "He sent you a bonus." I waved the fifty. "I've got ten of these for you. For a job well done."

  The damn fool unchained the door and was reaching for the cash in an instant. I just pushed him back inside, hissing, "Not out here, you fool" to keep him quiet, and shut the door with my foot.

  "So, he's happy, is he?" Sparky didn't even look at me. He was too busy ripping open the envelope I handed him. "Tell Kowalczyk it was a pleasure doing business." Then he looked perplexed at the glossy advert. "Hey, what is this?"

  "Bye, Sparky." And then I shot him. With the door closed and the traffic outside, nobody heard a thing.

  I was out in the street a minute later, wearing Sparky's blue and yellow scarf and black woolly hat. If anyone ever checked CCTV, the bulky coat and change of headgear would make sure they wouldn't connect the dots.

  Back at Bubbles, I took the Arsenal kit out of my pocket and restored them to their owner. Sparky's things went straight into lost and found. Then I went to find the veteran and handed him a wad of cash. "For you, my friend."

  He was too far gone to even see how much there was. "Thanks."

  I felt for him. "Ali will be back in business within a day or so. Come back here tonight if you need another meal."

  His answer was automatic, "You're a gent." But he wasn't thinking about food. He shuffled off, and I knew that money would be in a dealer's hand within the hour. It's a damn shame to see a man reduced to that state, but what can you do? Yeah, I know, I sell the stuff. I take a bump every now and again as well, but you don't see me becoming an addict, do you?

  Everyone knows coke is bad for you, just like smoking and boozing, but we all do it. It's not like we don't know what we're getting into, either. The message that these things are dangerous is everywhere. But we all love to party and as far as I'm concerned, it's fine. You simply need to know your limits.

  When I returned to Zeta Towers, the team were hard at work. While James consulted with his legal team, and Lencho and Paco dealt with our suppliers and employees, all of them needing reassurance, I checked up on Kowalczyk.

  To my immense pleasure, he was raging. I didn't have to see his texts to know it either; the fool yelled so loudly, that my eyes across the street just held out his phone and recorded it.

  "You fucking moron! That farm produced prime Banana Kush! Over 20 percent THC, for fuck's sake! What do you mean, sorry? Skurwysyn! I'll skin you alive!"

  Half an hour later, when he discovered we'd bumped off his dealers, he was so enraged that he lost his English. That was recorded too, by CCTV and by my eyes.

  Listening to the clip, I was sorry I never learned Polish. But I recognised kutas and pizda, and as he was reaming his people for being cunts, and yelling about "that fucking Mexican" by which he definitely meant me, it was all happy.

  Amazingly, he still hadn't picked up on the fact that I had his woman. In between all the agony, he was calling his men and the brother, "Find her!" with no thought that her disappearance was part of the attack.

  An hour after the close of business, I called for another meeting. "We need to stay tight," I told the team. "Update me." They had done great work, really superb, and I was generous with my praise. "You're the best. We're not just going to win this war; we'll make the whole fucking country sit up by showing them how it's done. Let me tell you the latest from Kowalczyk's."

  Playing them the clip of the hysterical cursing and swearing had them laughing. "He doesn't have a hope in hell," Paco grinned.

  "Yeah, his goose is cooked," Lencho agreed.

  "What next, boss?" James asked.

  "We've got him where we want him: he's confused, not concentrating, and completely missing the fact that we're taking away his revenue stream. When he learns his plane isn't taking off, we make our move." I showed them a map. "While he's still screaming, we take over that block. His people have a choice: they sign up with us or they're out of business. Permanently."

  From the smiles all round, the team liked the plan, but I wanted to be sure they loved it. "I estimate an additional income of five figures a week. With our product being much better than that Polish crap, and with our better margins, we should be able to double it within the year."

  "Fenomenal!"

  It was great news but the meaningful way Lencho and Paco eyed James, I knew there was a question.

  "Boss, no disrespect," James said carefully. "But is there any more information about that other matter?"

  Jesus, he really was nervous. I had seen that kind of edginess around my cousin but I had never been treated with such diplomatic kid gloves before. "You mean Kowalczyk's woman?" They weren't breathing but their attention was sharp as knives. "That hueco Pole hasn't even realised we have her."

  Paco was open-mouthed. "No shit!"

  "Yeah, he's so dumb, blondes tell jokes about him."

  Lencho shook his head. "Hard to believe."

  "So, uhm, what's the plan, boss?" James asked carefully.

  "As he's wasting time and resources looking for her, it's all good," I'd thought it out.

  There was that uncomfortable silence again. The team wanted to ask if the jefe had been informed but decided against it.

  "They found Sparky's body half an hour ago," James changed the subject. "They haven't connected him to us but Smith will hear about it in the general briefing tomorrow."

  "I'll clear a space in my diary for him."

  At that, my phone beeped. The boys from Tel Aviv had arrived.

  I knew they were the best by reputation, but the second I laid eyes on them, I was relieved to see it was all true.

  They were dressed in civvies, half of them in jeans and the other in suits, but they moved and acted like soldiers, relaxed but hyper aware of every detail in their environment. That kind of act only comes from the finest organisations: we have our Fuerzas Especiales, the US have their SEALs, the Brits their SAS, and these men were definitely Shayetet 13, Israel's finest.

  "Call me Amit," the leader was five feet ten, wiry, and totally innocuous looking – until you looked in his eyes. He had a penetrating gaze that was very familiar and his handshake would crush girders. "Mr Santos, good to meet you. I worked with your cousin a few years ago. A joint US-Israeli operation."

  Told you. That stare was a copy of my cousin's, Kyle. "Amit, it's a pleasure. Call me Jorge."

  I introduced my team, and they were clearly thinking the same as me. With these men backing us up by protecting our existing business, we were free to run our war.

  Amit grinned. "You paid us in full in advance. We appreciate that."

  "And there's a bonus structure in place." Money motivates, and I wanted the best from the best. "Let's set you up. I have all the information you ne
ed here."

  Working with pros is always great and two hours later, I knew our properties were in safe hands. As Amit and his men went about their business, I saw it was well past ten o'clock. I was drained and by their pales faces, Lencho and Paco were shattered too. Even James had dark rings around his eyes.

  We'd been at it for eighteen hours straight and after two nights of being blasted out of bed before dawn, we were beat.

  I sent them home, "Get some rest."

  "I don't mind watching the shop." James was blinking with fatigue. He really is a good man.

  "We've got good men in place," I reminded them. "Our job is to get rested. Tomorrow morning, we take our first inch of Kowalczyk's territory."

  "Sweet," James grinned.

  "Go home. Wrap yourself around a blonde." They'd worked hard and deserved a reward. "In fact, it's blondes all round. I'll call Curzon Street and send you all a nightcap."

  They exited smiling. With the team settled, I finished up my report and decided I needed to relax as well. Thinking of those copper curls and luscious limbs had me solid. Anticipating a bit of relaxation for myself, I went home.

  Chapter Eight

  Persia

  Lying on the bathroom floor with my muscles cramping was hell. It just slipped out, "You're a wanker."

  "When I come back, I'll remind you of your manners." He touched the collar around my neck, adding sarcastically, "Woof."

  He spoke softly but my stomach dipped because I remembered what he was. He didn't slap or kick me, or set off that flaming collar, but that didn't mean much. The quick way he fucked off suggested crisis; he simply had business that was more urgent than me.

  "Hope they shoot you!" He didn't hear me because I made sure the door had slammed shut first.

  Thankfully, the pain ebbed fast. I loaded the bath with towels and settled there with my pillow. It was comfortable, but I wasn't feeling chipper. I'd been held captive for three days and there were no signs he would let me go. He was determined to put me down and that shock collar was a master stroke.

  Remembering how it burned, I got the shivers. God knows how I'd not fallen to pieces. I just got stuck on squealing, "Fuck you." It was a mindless reflex. Thankfully he'd stopped. I remembered the careful hands as he stroked my hair but the sex after was a blur.